


The Gift of The Many-Faced God

by DuschaPendragon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Death, Face Changing, Gen, The House of Black and White
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 19:12:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3781168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DuschaPendragon/pseuds/DuschaPendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had promised her rest and freedom here, so it was here she came. Tentatively, a shaking hand knocked on the door. The sudden movement of it opening sent her leaping back, her instincts taking over and putting her on the alert. <br/>He cannot hurt me here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gift of The Many-Faced God

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, ok...I'll confess. There is no Ramsay Bolton in here, even though I have tagged him. But, let's face it, he's referred to so often that he might as well be there so ya know.  
> I think I found a theory or prediction ages ago about Jeyne being sent to Braavos for her safety and her going to the House of Black and White to receive the gift. I just remembered it last night and though 'hey, what about a one-off about that?' So here I am, and here you are. Enjoy!

 

She glanced over her shoulder.   
Again.   
Once more.   
The boat drifted back out into the mist and she was left alone _. He cannot hurt me here._   
After one final check, one final look to confirm her fears were not about to come to life, she turned around. The doors stretched upwards; tall, but not foreboding. One side was black. The other white; the bleached wood of a Weirwood tree. In the centre of the door, a face had been carved. _Like the one at home_. The home she had left many years ago, not the one she had returned to.   
Her feet dragged along the ground as though she were bound by heavy shackles; weighing her down, dragging her back. _I am free. I will be free of him. He cannot hurt me here.  
_ But she wasn’t free. By day, she feared he was behind her; ready to sneak up and steal her away. He would not kill her. Death was too merciful. Night-time was no better. Her mind would take her back to that darkened room. First she would hear him enter; the sound was crisp and clear. As real as she was. Then his voice. It did not possess that murky quality one associates with dreams. It was real. It was him. Then came the pain. She tried to tell herself it was not real, that it was just a dream. But his hands and teeth and the words that seared, severed and stung convinced her otherwise. It was real. It had all been so real.  
She would wake screaming. Trembling. Crying out his name. _Master, my lord, my sweet sweet lord…_  
The door was before her now. The agonizing ascent had wearied her and she longed for rest. _Eternal_ rest. They had promised her rest and freedom here, so it was here she came. Tentatively, a shaking hand knocked on the door. The sudden movement of it opening sent her leaping back, her instincts taking over and putting her on the alert. _He cannot hurt me here_. The doors remained open before her. Inside was nothing but darkness. It did not frighten her, though she had come to dread it. This darkness was different. It welcomed her. As she stepped inside and the doors closed behind her, she could feel its comforting embrace. It put a gentle hand on her back and guided her forward into its depths.  
Her bodiless guide led her to the light and she found herself inside some sort of temple, though she smelled it before she saw it. The incense filled her nostrils; seeping into her mind and cleansing it of fear. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and bathed in the serenity of it, allowing the calm to wash over her before opening her eyes again. The temple was dimly lit, but seemed momentarily blinding following her welcome. She gazed about in confused awe. In the centre of the room was a pool filled with dark water. As dark as her nights had been. Around the room were statues; eloquently carved and each with an air of individuality. Some smiled, some frowned and some had no faces at all. She did not recognise their faces. They were strangers to her. Her gods were in the North, and there were no Weirwood’s here. Even the ones Sansa had shown her once in the sept could not be seen amongst these foreign gods.   
Candles had been settled at the feet of some of the statues; casting shadows across them and stretching up towards their faces. Some of their faces were so dark, they frightened her. She started to tremble with fear. Her breathing became sharp and short as she felt all those eyes on her. _They are watching. Too many, they’ll see. Someone will see. Someone will remember...  
_ “You are not afraid of the darkness though.” She span around to face the voice. The man was taller than her and she immediately cowered away. She could not see his face beneath the hood of his black and white robe. _  
It is him. He has found me._  
“You are not afraid of this darkness, because you have seen far worse.” The man continued. It was not his voice. This voice was gentle and kind and thick with the accent she had heard around these parts. “Calm yourself child. This is a place of peace. The temple of the Many-Faced God. You seek his favour, is this so?” Her eyes widened and she stared up at him, confused.  
“I…I do not know. I worship the Old Gods. The…the Gods of the North.”  
“A girl may worship as she will, but at the end there is only Him of Many Faces. It is his gift you seek. I see it.” Swallowing fearfully, she wondered how he saw it when she had not so much as glimpsed his eyes.  
The Many-Faced God she had not heard of. Not even in the stories she used to listen to. This man’s strange words were frightening her. _All I want is peace.  
_ “Who are you?” The man without a face asked. Her eyes widened more and her lips began to tremble. She could feel the tears balling up in the back of her throat as only one name filled her mind.   
_The name he taught me. It’s the only name I know, I promise, I will not forget…I promise. I will be a good girl. A good wife, I promise…  
_ “A…Arya Stark.” She stuttered.  
“You lie. You are not Arya Stark.” The tears burned her eyes and she could feel the salt sear her cheeks.   
_I am. I am. I know my name. You have to know your name.  
_ “You are Jeyne Poole, this is so?” He asked gently.  
_My name. He said my name.  
_ “Yes.” She wept. “That is my name.” She had heard no one say it for so long, she thought she had forgotten it. Even Theon…even he had been afraid to say it, as though it were a curse instead of the name her mother had whispered to her on the birthing bed.  
_Jeyne Poole. I am Jeyne Poole. And he cannot hurt me here._  
“Please…please, can you help me? Can you help me find peace?” She sobbed, though the tears now fell from relief, not fear.   
The old man raise his arm, gesturing to behind her. Jeyne turned and saw a figure down by the dark pool. They were bundled up in an oversized robe so she could not tell if it was a man or woman. They picked up a cup and plunged their hand into the water. Jeyne wondered if it was cold or warm. The figure emptied the cup, then staggered off into a hidden alcove where they settled down to sleep.  
_No. Not sleep. Die._  
“Gift yourself to Him of Many Faces child, and he will reward you in return.” She smiled through her tears and turned to thank the kindly man.  
But he was not there.  
His sudden disappearance did not fill her with the fear it should have done. It made no matter to her now.  
Jeyne turned around and moved towards the pool, sure of foot. Picking up a cup, she studied it for a moment, still smiling, before sliding her hand into the water. The small voice in her head was silent as she felt the cool fluid kiss and caress her skin. She had never felt a touch so soft and kind. Tilting her head back, she revelled in the gentle strokes before lifting the cup from the pool. If the water had been sweet to her hand, it was kinder to her lips. Sweet relief filled her mouth and slid down her throat. The one cup was enough and she left the cup beside the pool so others could indulge in its pleasure.  
Turning, she squinted into the welcoming darkness until she found an alcove empty of the dead and dying. The water had eased her limbs of the tense ache she had not realised she had been suffering from. The relaxed muscles made it hard to walk, but she somehow made it to the alcove. There was no mattress. No pillows. Not even a blanket. But Jeyne cared not. She settled onto the cool stone floor and drank in the sweet air; allowing the incense to wash over her and soothe her once again. Jeyne closed her eyes; the only muscles still tensed were those in her cheeks as she smiled herself to sleep.  
“Gift yourself to the Many-Faced God,” She heard the kindly man whisper. “And be at peace Jeyne Poole.”

After all she had done and what she had become, sometimes she would still be called upon to clean and strip the bodies.   
She had already cleaned one and ten bodies, readying them before they made their final gift. Gathering the cloth she cleaned with and the box she put the valuables and clothes in, the acolyte moved on to the next body. This one seemed tiny. Frail. Fragile.   
The acolyte set to work. She fingered the dead girl’s dress and frowned. It was made of fine silk. The finest she had felt in a long time.  
_No. I’ve never felt silk as fine as this. Not ever.  
_ Chewing her lip, she started on the laces.   
_Why would a girl gift herself when she has such finery?_  
It was not for her to know.  
When she removed the girl’s dress however, the reason for her offering became clear.  
The bruises had yellowed, but that made them no less ugly. They marked her body; almost every inch of it was not the colour it was supposed to be. Some parts were worse than others. It was not just bruising that marked her. She was covered in scars and there were bite marks all over her breasts, as though she had been savaged by some wild animal. Only these were no animal teeth.  
The plain girl began to run her cloth across the body. After she reached down between the dead girl’s thighs, the cloth came away dark with blood and flakes of scab. The acolyte new better than to wrinkle her nose at it, but she glanced at the girl’s face to see what poor creature had suffered so.  
She stared at the face. Stared and stared and stared some more.  
She _knew_ that face. She _knew_ it.  
_No not me. That was Arya. I’m just an acolyte. Not Arya. Arya Underfoot. Arya Horseface._  
It was this dead girl that had made up that name. She had been a friend of a girl who used to eat lemoncakes and make fun of Arya. Arya Underfoot. Arya Horseface.  
Tearing her eyes away from the dead girl’s face, the acolyte stuffed the fine silk into the box. She picked up the cloth but discarded it the moment she realised it was beyond salvaging. The acolyte stood up but continued to stare down at the body. She did not know this girl, but Arya did.  
_Jeyne. Her name is Jeyne._

That night she was summoned to the third floor. The faces stared down at her, watching as she passed beneath them, but they did not unnerve her. _Fear cuts deeper than swords_.  
“An offering has been made to Him of Many Faces. A payment. And the Many-Faced God must have his due.” The acolyte stopped at the sound of his voice. Soon enough, he appeared. Garbed in his usual black and white robe. “Are you ready to see the debt is paid, child?”  
“I am.” Her voice was sure as was her heart.  
She sat down dutifully on the cold stone floor, closed her eyes and waited. The feeling of it all was natural to her now. One day she would learn to do it herself, as simply as one would change their cloak. But that was not this day.  
The skin was pulled down over her head and it drank up the blood; melting and sealing itself into her skin. No occasion was the same as the last, but this was worse than any of them. A scream tore through her as she felt her body being beaten, the secret parts of her body savaged. A face filled her vision. Such a terrible face she had never seen, but the eyes she recognised. Queer pale eyes. _  
Leech Lord_.  
This was not the leech lord though. The eyes were the only things that matched. This man’s face was hideous; fat, wormy lips flecked with spit, a big nose and black, greasy hair.  
She continued to scream.  
“He cannot hurt you here. She is dead. She is at peace. Breathe through the pain.” The kindly man reminded her. She took a deep breath and the face turned to smoke. The invisible hands ceased their cruel pounding. Opening her eyes, she saw only the kindly man before her. Tentatively, she touched her face, as she always did. It felt the same, but she _knew_ it was different.  
“You are pretty. Not beautiful, but pretty.” He told her with a smile. “Go. Sleep now child. Tomorrow, you must begin your work. He of Many Faces will have his due.”

That night, she lay in her bed trying to recall her prayer. She could never sleep until she said the names, but tonight there was only one name that came to her lips. One name to offer up to the God of Many Faces. She whispered it over and over into the darkness.  
_Ramsay Bolton._


End file.
